The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing (6 page)

“This is too slow,” Dianthe said, “but it will do.” She paused. “For today.”

Aris heard the hiss of a door closing and then she was alone.
You just have to make it through a month. Then she’ll see you fly, and she will have no choice to keep you.
The words pounded in her head to the rhythm of her feet. But within minutes, her legs were trembling and her lungs were on fire.

A month? Who was she kidding? She wasn’t going to last a day.

Aris awoke the next morning to complete darkness for the first time in her life. She felt the lack of Lux’s constant glow like the loss of a childhood friend. She’d always imagined that when she left home, she would be with Calix, not in a tiny, impersonal room in the heart of Panthea by herself.

When she turned on her digitablet, she checked her comms and noted with a start that she had a message from Calix. With trembling fingers, she touched the screen and opened the letter.

Aris, you don’t know how happy I am to finally sit down and write to you. Only ten days apart and it feels like a lifetime. I keep telling myself it’ll get easier, but I still dream about you all the time. Sometimes I think about our last night together and wish I’d broken the rules. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that. I’m so tired I can hardly think. The training has been a lot harder than I expected. In addition to our mender duties, we have to do combat drills and physical conditioning. You’d laugh if you saw me . . . I’m a terrible fighter. I miss you so much, Mosquito. Tell Rakk and Phae I say hi. And give my mother a kiss, will you, if you see her? Please write soon. I need to know you’re surviving. I love you. ~ Calix

Aris couldn’t do as he asked and say hello to anyone, or kiss his mother. Instead she wrote that she had left Lux. Her story about the Central Enviro Office wouldn’t make much sense to him, especially given Panthea’s no-fly rules, but there was no help for it. Dianthe had told her she couldn’t hint at the truth over comms in case they were monitored. She’d have to wait until they were face to face to tell Calix what she’d done.

“Let’s go, Aris!” Dianthe’s voice shattered the silence. Two sharp knocks on the bedroom door followed.

“I’ll be right out.” Aris switched off her digitablet and dragged herself from the small, hard bed. Calix’s first comm should have come as a relief. An affirmation. But he sounded so lost. She wished she could tell him she was coming, that they’d bear the burden of their new lives together.

When she walked into the main room, Dianthe was at the door saying goodbye to someone in the hallway. Aris waited, grateful for any small reprieve from the torture.

Dianthe closed the door and turned to study her. “How’s the leg?”

About to fall off.
“Fine.”

“Good.” Dianthe pursed her lips, as if pinching back a smile. As if she knew Aris was lying and could see every single aching muscle she was trying to hide. She led Aris into the room with the moving floor and strapped her into a frightening machine meant to work her leg muscles. Aris began the exercise, biting back a groan as her legs burst into pain.

“So,” Dianthe said while she watched her work, “What happened?”

“What . . . do you mean?”
Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.
What Aris
wanted
to do was scream. Her thighs were already burning.

“Your leg. The limp.”

She paused, trying to concentrate on the question, but Dianthe barked, “Don’t stop. Five more.”

This time Aris couldn’t hold back the groan. Half-breathless from exertion, she mumbled, “When I was a child I got sick, so sick my parents thought I’d die. I couldn’t walk for months afterwards, and the pain of relearning made me scream.”
Just the way I feel now.

“Ten more, then you’re done with this,” Dianthe interjected. “And talk using shorter sentences. Be straight. To the point. Think about the way men speak.”

“Not all men . . . speak . . . like that.” Aris pushed her legs against the machine as she said it, her face burning with the effort. Her father spoke long and eloquently, often using his hands for illustration. He told wonderful stories.

“But
you
will,” Dianthe said, interrupting Aris’s regrets. “You’ll talk and act like a typical male. This isn’t about expressing yourself or the variety of human experience. It’s about conformity. You will disappear into the soldiers’ ranks. You will
not
stand out. Do you understand?”

Aris nodded.

Dianthe grabbed Aris’s knee, adjusting her leg to improve her form. “So, you were ill and had to relearn how to walk. That’s it? The end of the story?”

The machine hissed into silence as Aris finished her last leg press. “Calix, the field mender I’ll be placed with, helped me. Saved me, really. I couldn’t have done it otherwise, without him taking care of me. He wouldn’t let me give up.”

“How romantic.” Dianthe’s sarcasm was palpable.

Aris straightened her legs, stretching out the sore muscles, and ignored the barb. “And my father wouldn’t either. He taught me to fly when I was too weak to walk. I’ve been flying ever since.” Holy, what she’d give to be flying now. “Flying was my way out of the pain. It was my freedom.”

Dianthe didn’t respond for a moment, and Aris wondered if she’d actually gotten through to the woman. But then Dianthe said, “Too much emotion. Keep that to yourself, Haan. Men don’t discuss their feelings.”

Aris sighed. “You did ask.”

Dianthe spun on her heel and walked to the panel that controlled the moving floor. “Break’s over. Give me a two-mile run, and I’ll make breakfast. Push yourself and you might just outrun that limp. There’s nothing wrong with your leg. It’s only weakness holding you back.”

This time, as Aris hauled herself to her feet, she didn’t even try to bite back her agonized groan.
Two miles before breakfast?
That much exercise before eating would surely kill her.

At least, then, there’d be no more running. Her lip twitched with the suggestion of a grin. Then the floor started to move and the pain followed.

You are doing this to be with Calix
, she told herself with each step.
To make him proud. You will not give up. You cannot go back to Lux.

And somehow, by the grace of the Gods, she made it exactly two miles before she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“So what’s it to be today, toast or custard?” Galena asked.

It had taken her less than a week to notice how much Elom hated that he had to feed her. It was the only small triumph she’d found, needling him each morning when he brought her breakfast.

He dropped the tray on the counter with a rattle.

“We can always go back to fluids,” he replied, twisting her hand painfully as he disengaged the metal bands holding her arms immobile against the bed railings. She massaged her wrists and wished she could rub away the faint red crimps where the restraints dug into her skin as she slept.

“It’s dangerous, you know,” she said as she sat up, “tying me to the bed at night. I’m not a young woman. One of these mornings you might have to do worse than bring me breakfast.”

He grunted. “You have three minutes.” He tapped the monitor, setting up the day’s testing.

Galena slid off the bed and pursed her lips as her bare feet touched the cold floor. She walked to the small washroom with her spine straight and tried to hold on to the illusion of Elom as her servant, bringing her food, washing her sheets.

Once inside the washroom door, she slammed it shut and sagged against the wall. She wanted to scream, pound against the door, break through the walls with her bare hands. She wanted to tear Elom apart.

It hadn’t taken long for her to realize he’d lied about her location; wherever she really was, it wasn’t an Atalantan clinic. There were no other menders attending her, and she’d had no contact with the outside world.

Galena had come to hate the moment, each morning, when she slid into consciousness. Because each time she finally opened her eyes, what she saw was the same: the restraints on her wrists; the gleam of Elom’s bald head looming above her; the look of condescension marring his features. Because each morning, she woke to the knowledge that he controlled everything—what she ate, what she did, even when she could use the washroom.

“Two minutes!”

His voice made her jump. She tightened her hands into fists and stepped slowly away from the wall. As she completed her morning routine, she imagined him standing before the Council in chains, the disdain in his eyes turning to fear.

She splashed cold water on her face—there was nothing but cold water here, even in the shower—then leaned against the sink. Again, as she did each morning, she dissected the room with her eyes, looking for a weapon, some way to escape. There were no air vents, no towel bars she could rip from the wall. There were no light panels that she could tear down to use as a bludgeon, or exposed wires to start a fire, just a high-tech ceiling that glowed. The small shower had no curtain; she couldn’t even try to hang herself, if she got desperate enough.

When Elom pounded on the door, she emerged, knowing he would open the door and drag her out if she didn’t.

“Eat,” he said.

She took the tray and moved to the one hard chair—bolted to the floor, of course. The dishes and flatware were flimsy, useless as weapons. She took a sip of the metallic-tasting orange juice and shuddered.

“What
is
this? Poison?” She knew it didn’t make sense to provoke him, that it would do no good. But it was all she had.

He didn’t respond, just pressed the cold electrodes against her skin, sliding his hands beneath the flowing white tunic he’d given her to wear. The feel of his hands on her would have frightened her, if his face didn’t always hold so much disgust.

“Wishing I were twenty years younger?”

“You know,” he said mildly, straightening, “I could do this just as easily if you were missing a finger. Or two.”

Galena kept her features still, but her hand shook as it brought the tasteless toast to her mouth. She forced it down, even though the hum of the electrodes made her stomach churn. He wouldn’t feed her again until late in the day. If she didn’t eat, it made no difference to him.

“Time for the news?” she asked, as she held her tray up to Elom.

He jerked it from her hand. “Walk first.”

With a sigh, she stood and walked around the room. Though the space was small, it was her only exercise so she tried to make it count.

Finally, he told her to stop. When she was seated, he set the digitablet in her hands. Today’s news report showed Pyralis, his wife Bett standing behind him.

“I wish Ward Vadim all the best as she continues her recovery,” he said, staring earnestly into the camera. The grooves in his face were even deeper than she remembered. For just a second, as she watched Bett reach for him when he’d finished speaking, she felt the pain of losing him all over again.

The pretty reporter summarized the rest of Pyralis’s speech and reminded the world of Galena’s illness. As Galena watched her point to the Atalantan clinic, she wanted to scream at her, “I’m not sick! I’m not
there
! Find me! Save me, please!” but of course she never said the words out loud. What good would it do?

When the vid was over, Elom grabbed the digitablet and fastened her restraints. Then he left, taking every scrap of light with him.

For a split second, as Aris stretched her feet to the edge of the bed and arched her back, she was happy. She’d been dreaming of the beach, of Calix standing in front of their cave, holding a white candle. The sun was setting, swirling the water with gold and crimson. He held the candle out to her, mouth open to say the words—

Then her legs seized up, her arms screamed, and the truth bloomed in her stomach, red and burning like an exploding firebomb.

Calix was gone from Lux, and she was in Panthea. Alone.

Desperate for some connection to him, she pulled her digitablet onto the bed with her, tapping the screen to begin a comm session.

No messages from Calix. Her heart sank. But there was one from her mother, asking how the new job was going. She dragged her finger across the screen. Instead of responding, she opened a new comm to Calix.

I’ve been dreaming about you. The last few weeks have been the worst of my life. I miss you so much, I feel like I’m drowning all the time. The new job is a distraction, but I’d still rather be with you. Good luck with your training. I know you’ll get the hang of it. You were always so fast in the races at school. Write me soon. I love you. ~Aris

Aris had made it nearly a week, but she was scared she might not last much longer. Every muscle in her body screamed, each new exercise or run made her want to beg for mercy. It felt like learning to walk after the fever all over again—the pain, the gasping breath as the effort threatened to topple her, the fear that she’d never learn, that she’d fail and be a shell of herself forever.

She wanted the freedom of flight so much she had dreams of stealing a wingjet and leaving, flying forever over rolling green blankets of forest, the sparkle of an ocean horizon just out of reach.

But she wanted Calix more.

She dragged herself out of bed, put on her exercise uniform, and went to meet Dianthe. As soon as she moved into the hall, the woman stomped her foot. “Not like that. Widen your stance,” she ordered, crossing the room to join Aris. “Shoulders back.”

Dianthe grabbed Aris’s shoulders in nearly the same way her mother did. Aris might have felt nostalgic, but for Dianthe’s next words, “As a man, you must keep your body straight and solid. Weight even on both legs. You start favoring that left leg of yours and I’ll send you home.”

Aris moved so her feet were hip-width apart and squared her shoulders, trying to channel the way Calix stood. It was so strange, learning how to move like a man. She still couldn’t imagine how she’d fool anyone. There was nothing she could do about her height, her curves, or her facial features.

“Better.” Dianthe let go of her shoulders. “Aristos.”

“Aristos?”

Dianthe gave her a considering stare. “That’s your name. Get used to it. From this point forward, all of your identification, electronic and otherwise, will be under the name Aristos Haan. And for all the world, you’ll be male. Come with me.”

“How does the disguise actually work?” Aris asked, following her across the large living room and into the kitchen. “You haven’t said.”

Dianthe stopped before the far wall. On it hung an enormous photo of the three eastern dominions: Atalanta, Safara, and Ruslana. “As a matter of fact, I’m about to show you.”

She pressed a finger to the photo, right in the heart of Atalanta, where a silver shimmer indicated Panthea. There was a hissing noise, and the wall slid away.

“A secret room?” Aris asked, eyes wide.

“Clandestine affairs cannot be conducted out in the open, can they?” Dianthe said, with a little smile.

The room was small and windowless, with a panel of monitors and equipment along one wall. In the center, a large white chair was bolted to the floor. The air was cold and had a faint bitter scent, like disinfectant and metal filings.

Aris couldn’t help it. She laughed.

Dianthe looked at her, brows raised.

“Sorry. It’s just . . . I thought we’d already done the torture part.” She swallowed back another nervous giggle as she followed Dianthe into the room.

The tall woman drew a handful of silver disks from a tray on a table against the wall. “With these I’m going to map your body. I’ll also record your voice,” she said, holding up another strange instrument. “And then, with the data, I’ll create a holographic second skin, called a diatous veil. It’ll smooth your curves, give you a less delicate nose.” She studied Aris’s face. “I’ll adjust your cheekbones,” she continued, tracing Aris’s skin with a long, feather-light finger, “And give you a more pronounced Adam’s apple. A voice modulator connected to the veil will lower your voice.”

“Does it hurt?” Aris asked, eying the gleaming disks in Dianthe’s hand.

“Not particularly.” Dianthe returned the electrodes to the tray. “The data collection is painless, and the veil itself is only an image.” She glanced back. “You have to be careful though. If someone touches you, they’ll feel your real shape. When you’re wearing body armor it won’t be a problem, but you’ll have to learn to keep your distance in training and during meals. We’ll practice.”

Aris nodded. It terrified her, the thought of being surrounded by strange men. Trying to hide among them as if she belonged.

“And you mustn’t, under any circumstances,” Dianthe continued, “remove your clothing in front of others. The diatous veil is not entirely correct, anatomically speaking.”

A blush swarmed up Aris’s cheeks. “There’s no way I’ll have my own room. Where will I change clothes?”

Dianthe settled her hands on her hips. “The network is extensive. You’ll be paired with another disguised female as your sectormate. The two of you will go through training together, bunk together. You’ll be responsible for keeping each others’ secret.”

“There are that many of us?” Aris asked, in wonder. Would she be able to tell the difference?

“There are enough.”

“So I am Aristos Haan.” Aris rolled it on her tongue, trying to fit it around her real name, smoothing it out so it sounded natural in her mind.
This might actually work.
She smiled.

“Alright,
Aristos
,” Dianthe said, emphasizing the name. “Sit.” She gave Aris a little push into the chair.

“We’re starting the body mapping now?” Anything to have a break from the endless running and sparring.

“Yes,” Dianthe said. “After we shave your head.”

Aris felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. “After we do
what
?”